Barbara Metzger (15 page)

It was love at first fight.

As Carissa knew it would, Cook's expertise in the kitchen soon won Byrd over, especially when they discovered they each liked a wee bit of spirits now and again. And a good game of backgammon. Besides, Byrd was under orders to make sure this set of servants stayed on. All of them. In a few days two footmen from Sir Gilliam's house arrived, seeking positions, so Byrd didn't feel as outnumbered. The men related how Mason was even more tyrannical than ever, while doing less of the work.

"You'd think he was the master, the way the old sod gives orders and throws tantrums,” the younger servant said, sporting a bruised jaw.

Arranging quarters for all the newcomers was a challenge. The menservants were bedded in the room above the stable, in the mews. Byrd refused to give up his room off the kitchen, which should have been Cook's or the housekeeper's. He needed to keep an eye on the comings and goings, the old sailor declared. And he needed to be able to blow a cloud without bringing the house—and Cook's wrath—down around his ears. So Cook had the attic room, sharing with Bonnie, who refused to stay with Broderick and Mason without Cook or Carissa to protect her. Mrs. Kane was to have the other guest bedroom, next to what was now the nursery suite. Unfortunately, it was also across the hall from his lordship's apartment.

"Very well,” she agreed, tight-lipped, “and we can bring in a pallet for Pippa."

"I thought she'd be happier in the nursery.” Lord Hartleigh was leaning against the door of the pink chamber. The room was most likely intended for the mistress of the house, he supposed, and that suited him just fine. Now that it had been cleaned and aired, the soft tones suited Mrs. Kane's coloring, too. Cats, yes, but he would not back down on this.

"But she has never been apart from me,” Carissa insisted.

"And it's more than time. The child is not a baby anymore, Mrs. Kane. You have to let her grow up a bit. Besides, we can do over the dressing room next to the nursery so Pippa will have a room of her own. She'll have lots of area for play, and Maisie can watch her more easily."

Carissa had unhappily followed him down the hall to the adjoining suite. Pippa was already riding Blackie in the center of the large, airy sitting room, which was filled with books and toys and games, even a dollhouse his lordship had unearthed somewhere. In the next room, the bedchamber, Sue's crib was to one side, so filled with more dolls and toys that the child had to sleep in the cradle next to Maisie's bed. Sue's basket had been claimed by Cleo.

"This room is large enough for me to have a cot also.” It really wasn't, not with the rocking chair, the dressers filled with baby clothes, and the little desk brought in for Maisie's schoolwork.

"Yes, but that is unnecessary. Besides, your later hours might disturb the children or Maisie."

"Later hours?” Scorpions and spiders?

Lesley smiled. “Why, yes. I understand that you used to take dinner with Sir Gilliam on occasion. Surely you cannot deny me that same courtesy? We will need to speak about the children, the household, that type of thing."

"Of course.” Dinner with him? Was she to be the dessert? She might as well give up now, Carissa thought. She was doomed. Lord Hartleigh was impossibly handsome, incredibly charming, and inflammatory to her senses. “I would be honored, my lord."

"That's another thing. I am deuced tired of all this my-lording. I would much prefer you call me Lesley, or if that is too familiar, Hartleigh. Hart will do. And I shall call you—What the deuce is your name, anyway?"

"No."

"No? I knew your family was a slew of shabsters, leaving you to fend for yourself, but to give their daughter such a name...?"

"Do not be foolish, my lord. I mean no, such familiarity is not pleasing."

"Well, all the bowing and scraping isn't pleasing to me, madam.” He stood up to his commanding height and glared down at her, a stance calculated to intimidate. “Recall, if you will, who pays the piper here."

Carissa put her hands on her hips. “Recall, if you will,
my lord,
who decides how much starch goes in your unmentionables and how often asparagus appears on your table."

He hated asparagus.

"You do not play fair, Mrs. Kane,” he conceded. “At least tell me what the blasted name is."

"It is Carissa,” she told him, hurriedly adding, “it's Greek for ‘loving.’”

"It sounds like a caress. No wonder you aren't free with it to strangers.” It suited her, though, he thought.

"Yes, well, my family called me Carrie.” And so did Phillip. She hated it.

"No, no, Carissa is perfect—when we are better acquainted, of course."

"When hell freezes over, my lord."

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Carissa was upstairs, checking the bedrooms with Bonnie to see what in the viscount's house should be replaced, what should be repaired. Lord Hartleigh had given her a generous budget, a free rein, and a commission to fulfill. He wanted the house appearing presentable enough, he said, to hold interviews there for prospective foster families. He'd go visit their homes, of course, to make sure the premises were suitable for Sue, but he also wanted to see the strangers with his daughter, in her own surroundings. His solicitor had declared him dicked in the nob, making such a to-do over a simple adoption procedure, but the viscount was adamant. He was also immovable about providing for Pippa's needs as well as Sue's. Carissa was to purchase a child-size desk, a globe, and a chalkboard. The viscount had already purchased a pony.

The pony, a shaggy cream and white Shetland mare, was just the perfect size for a little girl, and of such pleasant temperament that Carissa had no qualms about letting Pippa near it, so long as she herself did not have to visit it in the stables. She had a great many qualms, however, about accepting more of the viscount's generosity.

"She's not for Pippa, Mrs. Kane, so you needn't get on your high horse. The mare I brought over from Hammond House for you to ride is quite the right height."

"If it is not for Pippa and not for me, my lord, who is to ride the pony? Byrd?"

"Oh, Pippa shall have the riding of the pony, and the naming of her, too, I suppose. But you see, I purchased her for Sue. Now, I know you are going to tell me Sue has no use for a pony, but she will in a few years, and Pippa will have the little mare perfectly trained by then, won't you, poppet?"

Pippa had nodded. She would have agreed to anything Lord Hartleigh said. If he wanted her to teach the pony to count, well, she knew up to ten.

"And when Sue is ready for her pony, Pippa should be ready for a real horse, which she will deserve, having done me the favor of exercising the pony while we wait for Sue to grow. There is only one problem, poppet."

A tear had already been forming in Pippa's big brown eyes. Problems usually meant no.

"Yes, a pony needs two hands on the reins to guide it."

The thumb had come out of the little girl's mouth like an arrow shot from a bow. And hadn't gone back in yet, except at night. Carissa was more grateful to the viscount for that than she was for the pony.

He'd insisted on buying Carissa a riding habit, also, so she could accompany them for Pippa's riding lessons. Gentle pony or not, Carissa was not about to let her baby on any horse but Blackie unless she herself rode at Pippa's side. But her old habit, old before Pippa was born, had been hopelessly outmoded, worn at the seat and cuffs, and too tight She'd cut it up to make Pippa a riding outfit, complete with feathered hat. For herself, Carissa had carefully tallied the cost of her new habit in the accounts ledger, for when she could afford to repay his lordship. Even if she sewed the brown velvet herself, her debt was mounting.

The least she could do for now, Carissa had decided, was make his home fit for a king. Or a viscount, at any rate. The narrow stone building could never compete with the grandeur of what he was used to at Hammond House, of course, but the Kensington place could be a gem. It would be, if she had to drag Byrd and the footmen to every furniture showroom and upholstery warehouse in London.

So far, the list of furnishings and such that needed replacing far outnumbered the repairs. As for the list of those items that were good enough for now, it consisted of Blackie—except where Cleo had been using the rocking horse as a scratching post Carissa made a note to place some fabric around the pony's legs, quickly, before his lordship noticed. She also made a note to ask Lord Hartleigh what colors he preferred for his chamber's new drapes. She would
not
select his bedhangings.

The only reason she'd proceeded with her inspection in the first place was that she knew the set of rooms was empty. Lord Hartleigh had gone to his club, and Byrd had taken the gelding round to the farrier. The sitting room was tidier than she'd expected, since Byrd was haphazard about anything except the horses and his food, but the footmen were conscientious, and so was Bonnie.

Carissa did not see much that was personal, no portraits, no miniatures, no trinkets or knickknacks from his travels. Of course, he had Sue as a memento....

She was not comfortable in Lord Hartleigh's bedroom. His lemony cologne lingered, even amid the musty furnishings. But she was too conscious of all the other women who must have come here to share that enormous bed with him, mingling their scents with his. Joining their bodies. She hoped they'd all gotten stuffed noses and watery eyes from the mildew.

Carissa crossed to the window to inspect the curtains, and to avoid the bed. From the viscount's chamber she could look out at Gibsonia Street, and across to Sir Gilliam's house. Mason was just leaving, headed east up the street. He did not look back—why should he?—and so missed seeing a nondescript sort of fellow leave the alley between two houses and follow him. So far he'd gone to the local pub, but the Runner thought he acted furtive, exactly like a ferret-faced malefactor. The pub was west, down the street.

Why not? Why shouldn't she go look for the will? Most likely Lord Hartleigh was right and Mason had stashed it elsewhere, but what if he wasn't that clever, only cruel? What if the rodent was so confident that he'd tucked it under his mattress, or in a book? No one would dare enter Mason's room without permission, to find it by accident. No one but Carissa.

She wouldn't ask either of the footmen to go with her ... or Bonnie. There was no way to explain their presence at Sir Gilliam's, and she would only be exposing them to danger for nothing. Carissa could say she was looking for something of hers that she'd forgotten in the attics, a sewing basket or some outgrown clothes of Pippa's. Mason's room was just down the hall. If he came home, however, and found her there, not in the attics—she wouldn't think about that.

She was not going to worry about Broderick Parkhurst either. The popinjay was undoubtedly on the strut in Hyde Park at this hour. What he had to peacock about was beyond her comprehension, since by all accounts his last showy hack had shown him the Serpentine. Young Broderick was making a splash in Society, all right.

She did not think he'd dare approach her anyway, not after the last contretemps. Just in case, though, Carissa threaded another long, sharp hatpin through her mobcap.

The decision was obviously made; the rationalizations had come after. Carissa was going after what was promised her, what Sir Gilliam had wanted her to have: a place of her own, an end to uncertainty, not having to be beholden to any man for any thing.

More than the rest, Carissa wanted a home for her daughter, where she could laugh and play and slide down the banisters. One that wouldn't be taken away when their current employer died or married, as Lord Hartleigh was bound to do sooner or later. He adored children, and the novelty of having them around did not seem to be wearing off on him. He'd discover, shortly, Carissa thought, that having a wife would make the begetting of them—and the keeping of them—much simpler. Carissa well knew that no wife of Viscount Hartleigh's was going to live in a paltry pied-a-terre outside of Mayfair. That wife wouldn't want Sue around either, nor a young housekeeper with a child of her own. This was a temporary haven only, then Pippa would be uprooted again. Unless Carissa could find that will.

She left the house before she had time to lose her nerve. And she went out the front door so she did not have to explain her mission to Cook or the others. Head down against the chill wind, she did not see the second shadow that had been hiding in the alley between houses.

The footman at the door of the Parkhurst place was known to her, although not well. He grunted at her story of a missing sewing basket and went back to his solo dice game. He did not offer to assist, but he did not demand she wait for Mason to come home, either, thank goodness.

Mason's room looked as if he'd moved in yesterday, but Carissa knew he'd been there for decades. In contrast to Lord Hartleigh's, which had nothing terribly personal, this stark chamber had nothing. It might have been a room in a hotel, waiting for the next paying customer. Not even a comb rested on the dresser.

In the first drawer she opened, shaving items were laid out as if on display. Everything raced in the same direction, and nothing touched. In the second drawer, every stack was aligned precisely: hose, handkerchiefs, neckcloths. The third contained a white nightshirt and black fabric slippers, nothing else.

Carissa was afraid to disturb the narrow bed, for she'd never get the coverings so tightly tucked. Instead, she opened the clothespress. Two coats, two pairs of trousers and two waistcoats, all black, hung in regimental order. One pair of shoes was on the bottom. One formal wig on a stand stood on the top. She felt the clothes for hidden pockets, and beneath the wig. She checked the drawers for raise bottoms, and lifted the braided rug in case a floorboard was loose. Nothing seemed wedged between the clothespress and the wall, not so much as a hair. The single chair had one cushion, which did not crinkle when she shook it. The Bible on the table next to it had no loose papers, no writing on the flyleaf. And that was it. There was no place else to look. The man lived like a monk.